Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

It sweats a palette of purple stars

to birthmark new-born skies:

each bruise is a pinprick miracle

whose galaxies of dead weight

are spinning dreams from dust –

hooked on air like an addict

or artist – the house is sucked

to a shadow of its former self.

Masterpiece or mould,

it’s difficult to tell until the brick

turns bad like any love bite does.